The Girl Who Couldn't Say No: Memoir of a teenage mom

by Tracy Engelbrecht

  The rest of the meeting passed by in a blur. I went home and made my list of expenses (lists being my thing, as you know), but we never handed it in and ended up not claiming maintenance from David at all.

  ***

  Well, there you have it. My pregnancy in a nutshell. Physically, it was just an ordinary pregnancy like any other. Emotionally, it was more complicated. But I got through it. Once out of school, I enjoyed being pregnant. I loved my belly. I loved feeling my baby move. I loved learning about pregnancy, birth and parenthood. I threw myself into it, I embraced it all, and I think I did a good job.

  My studying was going well and as a family we were finding our equilibrium, a new way of being with each other. And I was finding out who I really was. It was a special time for me, and I’ll always be grateful for it. Of course, I had moments of doubt, but every mother does. Maybe my doubts were more justifiable, maybe more amplified, given my youth, but I never once said I’d changed my mind. As afraid as I was, I knew I was doing the right thing. Although I worried and obsessed that I’d be a terrible mother, somewhere deep down I knew we’d be fine. That little voice that had first spoken to me on the day I found out I was pregnant was positively chatty now – it felt like the voice of my child, coming from a different time and place. A time and place of before – the place he’d been waiting for me, until I was ready for him.

  The voice reassured me, comforted me, encouraged me to be brave. I so wanted to meet him. But first, my biggest challenge. The birth. Of course, I was convinced I’d never be able to do it. I’ve since learnt that everybody feels that way. Knowing that wouldn’t have helped at all, though. I was scared shitless (although that’s not entirely correct, given the whole enema debacle. Had I been truly scared shitless, I may have been spared that humiliation.)

  Chapter Five

  1994: In which she gets high and falls down a lot (in unrelated events)

  Steven Engelbrecht made his grand entrance at 16h20 on 11 April 1994, exactly on his due date, and while I was atevhile I lready at the hospital having a routine check up. Most considerate of him. He’s been big on punctuality, even from birth. That’s my boy.

  April 11 was Baby Day, but nobody really expected him to arrive on time. First babies don’t usually, after all. Or so I was told. By the same strange people who told me, alternately, that I was either “carrying high” or “carrying low” or “carrying in front” or “carrying behind”. Whatever. I never did get the whole “carrying” thing. It’s not like he was a Checkers packet or French loaf or something. Still, they sounded so knowledgeable, so convinced of their arguments, it was easy to believe they knew more than you, particularly when they employed that specially patented patronising-yet-soothing tone no-one dared oppose.

  These people (that would be nosy women) are the Old Wives referred to in the saying. They’re called Old Wives because most of them are – having been married for roughly a thousand years and having had their children back in the day when penicillin was big news. They can actually be a good source of information at times, but you have to listen with your Bullshit Filter turned all the way up. They have loads of experience, but many of them also seem to have an innate need to frighten the pants off anyone standing still long enough to listen to their Cousin Freda’s horrific gauze-left-in-the-uterus Caesarean story. I’d encountered a few of these biddies, and had been shocked to find that several antenatal nurses were actually secret members of the Old Wives Club. Never mind all that modern hooey about breast is best, they’d quietly tell their confused patients. That’s just what the doctors want us to say. Everyone knows what newborn babies really need is supplemental bottle feeding with sugar water, and bring on the honey-covered dummies, too.

  I had a regular weekly check-up scheduled for that day, so off we went at nine in the morning. I left my maths revision open on my desk, fully expecting to get back to it by about lunchtime. As it turned out, it would stay open on the trinomial factorisation page for the next four weeks.

  Monday was Antenatal Clinic day at the hospital. Preggie fairies of all shapes, sizes and ages gathered to be poked and prodded by bossy nurses and busy doctors. So many different women, all doing and feeling exactly the same things. Same aching backs, same swollen feet, same gaseous digestive issues. Watching them all fascinated me. I was amazed that I was one of them, with my very own aches and escalating paranoia.

  The lady with the swollen feet really scared me. She could barely walk and she couldn’t wear shoes. Her pork sausagey ankles looked like they would burst like water balloons if poked. Not that you’d want to; you’d probably pay good money to avoid poking those squidgy ankles. She didn’t have long to wait. As soon as the nurses got a look at those tremendous feet, she was bustled into the doctor’s office and then, amid great fanfare and official-form-filling-in, to the labour ward. Other women nodded to each other knowingly and the whisper rippled through the waiting room like a juicy office rumour – pre-eclampsia. A shudder went down every spine. We all imagined ourselves being wheeled off to an emergency Caesar at thirty-four weeks; frantic phone calls to husba imlls to nds (or not, if you were me); things going wrong.

  The nurse did all the usual things before I saw the doctor. She checked my blood pressure (a bit low, but it usually was); my cunningly pre-packaged urine sample (no trace of anything dodge); my haemoglobin (ze aitch-bee, remember? Also low – got the “you should be eating liver” lecture); weighed me (62 kilograms at nine months pregnant – oh, to be fifteen years old again!), and assured me that the funny, twangy cramps I’d been feeling all weekend were probably just Braxton Hicks contractions. I was the picture of fat pregnant health and everything was going according to plan. Thus far.

  “Is everything alright?” was the theme for every doctor’s visit. And, so far, everything had been fine. My baby was growing wonderfully, all milestones were being reached and all measurements correct. Against all odds, it seemed I would deliver a strong, healthy baby – a strapping young lad.

  I hadn’t found out the baby’s sex, but I had a strong “boy feeling”. My doctor was lovely – a big, kindly teddy-bear of a man who explained things so nicely and never once made me want to kick him in the nuts. That was a big deal for me. I was oversensitive about everything and the smallest perceived skew look or funny comment would set me off. But he never did anything to make me uncomfortable. I was looking forward to having him at the birth. He had a very calming effect on me, and I felt I’d do all right with him.

  And then. Just as I was beginning to feel comfortable and mildly confident, do you know what the bugger did? Do you know? He got himself transferred to Namibia, that’s what he did. The horrible, horrible man went away without telling me, so I was left in the lurch on my due date, not knowing who would deliver my baby.

  I didn’t take this news well. I was unsettled and worried and beginning to have a terribly dark suspicion about that twelve-year-old boy dressed up as a doctor who’d just picked up my file. No… please no…. don’t tell me you’re my new doctor…

  Worry turned to borderline hysteria as he called my name. Of course. Of course he’s the doctor. How could I have thought any different? I couldn’t believe it. He was yummy, but so very, very young. He looked more like a teenager than I did. Surely this wasn’t allowed? Did they really let unqualified children wander around here without supervision? Where’s the real doctor? That’s what I’d like to know. Where’s the fricking camera? I know Leon Schuster must be here somewhere, the bastard. I cringed as I followed him into the office, the thought of explaining my Situation to this kid whom I might otherwise have attempted to flirt with giving me cramps.

  Dr Boy Wonder’s friendly, reassuring smile and quite adorable bedside manner didn’t help one bit. My confidence had been seriously rattled and I was on the verge of tears. Again. What a surprise.

  He read my file and noteigfile aned my latest blood pressure reading and other vital statistics.

  “Hmmm… everything here looks good. The sister
tells me you’ve been having cramps this weekend?” he asked. Ever so professional, but I was still waiting for the punchline.

  “I tell you what, let’s have a look. If the pains weren’t regular, it’s probably just Braxton Hicks.” He paused tactfully, in case I didn’t know what Braxton Hicks were. Of course I knew. Snotty know-it-all kid. “But let’s make sure, shall we? Hop up onto the bed and we’ll check you out.” Another reassuring smile, which also made no difference.

  Hmph. Check me out indeed. The nerve. So, not only was this little boy going to sit there and be all condescending, now he wanted to go prospecting too? Wonderful. I wondered briefly whether he was some kind of perv from the paediatric psych ward in a stolen white coat. I wasn’t convinced by his official name badge or fancy stethoscope. He was a pretend doctor, a Doogie Howser, a George Clooney – entertaining and easy on the eye, but you wouldn’t let him anywhere near a real patient.

  I stripped and got up onto the bed. Of course I did. For all my stroppy bravado, I was still a sucker for authority, real or fraudulent. Wuss.

  I’d thought I was over the embarrassment of gynaecological examinations. I’d been wrong. I didn’t mind Teddy Bear Doctor. He was old. He knew what he was doing. This guy, on the other hand, was a whole new ball game. I was very aware of how young and handsome he was, and that he was poking around in places where young and handsome males of the species do not as a rule poke, except under completely different circumstances.

  I lay there with my legs up, as you do, and tried to think of something to say. My meagre store of small talk had been erased from my brain, unfortunately, so I lay there in silence, waiting for him to finish. He seemed to be taking awfully long.

  Then he said “Hmmm.” Just like that. Hmmm. What the hell did that mean?

  He fiddled and faffed a bit more, then asked, “These pains you were feeling, how strong were they? Are you still getting them?” Very calm, very doctor-like, but I was freaking out. Okay, so now I’m worried.

  “No, they stopped on Sunday. I haven’t had anymore. They just felt funny, almost like period pains, but not really. Why?” I asked in a quivery, soggy sort of voice. Tell me what the fuck is going on here please? But I didn’t say that.

  “Hmmm,” he said again, as he took another look. Not very helpful, I must say. Then he straightened up, snapped off those rubber gloves and grinned at me.

  eight="0" width="48">“Are you quite sure you’re not feeling any contractions right now? Because you’re five centimetres dilated, and I think it’s time to admit you.”

  Oh, holy God. What? This was definitely not in the plan. How could I be five centimetres dilated, half-way there, without having felt anything? What happened to timing contractions, waters breaking dramatically in the street, frantic midnight drives to the hospital? What happened to all the stuff the book said about first labours taking a long time? And most of all how could it possibly be time now? Just like that, no big deal, no time to prepare or get used to the idea. No hanging around for hours trying to decide if it’s time to go to the hospital or not. No time for reality to sink in slowly. Just sommer bung me in a hospital gown and stick me in a bed. Just like that. Yes, I know – I’d had nine months to get used to the idea, But still, this seemed unfair. I felt ambushed. I felt like he’d sprung this on me just to be mean.

  And he looked so damn cheerful. Clearly, he thought this was wonderful.

  “Come on, then, get dressed. Is your mom here with you? Let’s go tell her the good news,” he said. Grinning damn idiot. I was frozen to the spot and couldn’t seem to feel my legs.

  Eventually I managed to pull myself together, and we walked back into the waiting room. He took me over to the reception desk and got my file in order for the admitting procedure. My mom looked worried as she watched us pass – this was a new development, the doctor didn’t usually come out with me.

  I went over to Mom and whispered, “He says it’s time. He says I have to be admitted now.” All shaky-voiced again.

  “What?! NOW?!” she squealed, trying to be quiet, but with the whole room on high-alert, they heard every word.

  “Yes, that’s what he says, Ma. He says I’m five centimetres dilated. It’s time.”

  And so it was.

  Lots of excitement and activity followed. We filled in all the forms at Admissions, where another very young desk clerk asked, “Reason for admittance?” He was serious, too. The enormous tummy and hefty hospital bag I was lugging were perhaps not obvious enough clues for him.

  “Um… it would seem I’m in labour”, I replied. Duh. He printed what seemed like ten thousand sheets of sticky labels with my name and file number and other details on. What the hell they were all for was anyone’s guess. Clearly, printing labels was his job and he was enthusiastically committed to doing it. I might also mention that it was somewhere at this juncture tha hejuncturt, under “religion”, someone checked “Roman Catholic” on my file. The military hospital was clearly keen on religion and you had to pick something. I’d seen through the whole church racket by then and couldn’t call myself Catholic, even though my father was a Catholic. Had I checked the box myself, I probably would have picked “Other”. So perhaps I can blame the dumb young office clerk for the horrors that were to come.

  In the labour ward, I unpacked my bag and then subjected myself to another battery of physical checks. Then I sat. For at least two hours I sat around, extremely bored and feeling like an impostor. I heard other women in the throes of labour, some of them going about it quite loudly. I saw large, sweaty-haired women lurching along the passages, supported by panic-stricken husbands glancing around for the nearest exit. Rats in a trap, they were. I saw them look at me, trying to figure me out. It didn’t look like I was in labour, so just what was I doing here, then? I felt sheepish, as if I was intruding where I didn’t belong. And still, I didn’t feel any contractions.

  I had more internal exams, and matters were apparently progressing. Still – nothing.

  Eventually, around noon, it was decided that they’d have to break my waters. Which they did. With an enormous crochet hook – I still see its evil pointy head in my dreams sometimes.

  Once the waters were broken, I began to feel some pain. The labour was going well, but I was nervous and tense. The tenser I got, the worse the pain got, which prompted the nurse to ask whether I wanted to try some gas for pain relief.

  “No! No, I don’t want it! I don’t need it!” I insisted, weakly.

  “Now, don’t try and be brave, my girl. There’s nothing wrong with a little gas, you don’t have to feel guilty about it, you know,” she said.

  Oh, but I did. Good mothers (which I was determined to be) did not accept pain relief during labour. Good mothers focused on their baby’s face and imagining him making his way out of the birth canal (birth canal – what a truly heinous phrase. As if you’re likely to find a couple of crooning gondoliers floating about in there) to meet you and the world. Good mothers don’t need that shit. Good mothers are strong.

  Guilt gland – activate. The Guilt gland is standard onboard equipment for any mother. They trigger as soon as you know there’s a baby inside you. And they never shut down again after that, not until you die. I suspect they keep working even after you die (like the way the hair on corpses sometimes keeps growing after death. Eeeuw!), leaching free-range guilt into the soil, to be taken up by the plants that we end up eating. Like oestrogen in the water. Only not.

  The guilt gland can maleigland cafunction sometimes – it can be overactive or underactive (much like the thyroid) – but you can’t take a pill to fix it. Well, you could. But they’re mostly illegal. However, my guilt gland was brand new and still getting warmed up. Which explains why I gave in to the idea of sniffing the happy gas on offer.

  I hated myself, but oh – did I love that gas. It made me high immediately – and while it didn’t take the pain away, it relaxed my body so completely that between contractions I lapsed into near unconsciousness. I wasn’t fig
hting the pain anymore. I was going with it. The contractions became more intense, I shouted at my mother louder and more often as soon as she stopped rubbing my back – and the day wore on.

  In the midst of all this, some crazy person brought me lunch – roast lamb, potatoes and veg. I was impressed – not bad grub for a government facility, I thought. Unfortunately, the sight of it still made me want to puke. I couldn’t bear the thought of eating, so the plate just sat there the whole way through my labour, slowly and greasily congealing in the corner. How gross. Stupid, stupid me. If I’d known of the microwaved abominations that were in store, I would have chowed down, drug-induced nausea or not.

  Then, suddenly, I had to push. Don’t ask me how I knew – I’d never believed women when they said you just know what to do. I’d always thought I’d be the only person to whom this did not apply. But what do you know? It turns out I was a real live Natural Woman who could do these things. Somewhere underneath the brain fog and abject terror, I was quite proud of myself.

  It’s amazing what those four little words can do. Yell (or whisper) “I need to push” in a labour ward and see everybody spring into action. Like a race car I was wheeled into the delivery ward just before four in the afternoon. I was exhausted. Giving birth is the only way on earth you ever get as tired as that. I struggled to get the pushing right – it was one step forward, two steps back.

  I remember repeatedly crying to the midwife and nurses, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

  Even in that state, I was convinced that I was doing it all wrong, probably wasting their time, annoying them and keeping them from their hot dinners. The guilt gland was in overdrive now, and my self-consciousness was getting in the way of the birth process. I was thinking too much, instead of doing.